


The wings of a raven, the love of a Viking

by Lesatha



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Whipping, Wingfic, Wings, and claws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesatha/pseuds/Lesatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more to Athelstan than meets the eye, just ask Ragnar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The wings of a raven, the love of a Viking

**Author's Note:**

> So. I made this. First, you should know I have an absolute love for wingfics. If it was up to me, each fandom would have its wingfic ;). And I don't think there is one for Vikings, or I couldn't find it, so if I'm wrong please, please, please correct me.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I tagged with minor violence, but if you feel that I should change the rating, I will.

When Ragnar hoists the little man from behind the altar, he doesn’t notice anything strange. At least nothing stranger than what they’ve seen in this place. Nothing stranger than the fact that the little man speaks their language.

“Please don’t kill me!”

Ragnar narrows his eyes at the words and glances to Leif and his father, who are as surprised as he is. That boy with his shaved head shouldn’t look so frightened. If only he knew how much value these words suddenly give him. And his amazing eyes also, but this is only a detail. Really.

Ragnar doesn’t want to kill him. He wants to keep him.

“There’s no room left on the boat. I’ll kill him.”

Ah, Rollo. He might be harder to convince. Ragnar puts himself between the priest and his brother, daring him to take another step.

“I forbid it. He is worth more alive, to sell as a slave.”

That is a blatant lie. Ragnar might be crazy enough to cross an ocean, but not to sell such a wonder. Rollo gets his frustration out on the wooden cross hanging on the wall, which seems to shake the little man more than the Viking’s threats. When Rollo leaves, Ragnar grabs the priest’s robe and draws him away from the altar.

“I’m not saying that Rollo is right,” Erik suddenly says, “but are you sure you want to bring back a hunchback?”

“What?”

Ragnar stops dead in his tracks and turns back to the little man, who has stopped breathing. He clutches that thing – a book as he called it – tighter against his chest. Ragnar grips his upper arm to turn him around and the priest starts shaking.

“N-no!” he stammers, trying to take a step back. Ragnar doesn’t even need to tighten his grip to stop him.

Leif moves closer to study the priest’s back and frowns.

“Yes, you should check that Ragnar.”

Ragnar grabs both of the boy’s arms and pushes him back toward the altar. His captive drops his book and tries to pry his hands off – and if struggling is worth letting go of that thing, Ragnar definitely has to see what is under his robe.  
He swings the priest around and bends him over the altar. In other circumstances, this would have given him plenty of ideas.

“Please, don’t, don’t do this!” the little man pleads, and Leif has to grab the back of his neck to keep him pinned on the altar.

The boy claws at the wooden surface under him, his nails engraving lines in the wood. Wait. His nails can’t leave marks on such a thick material. At least, not marks that deep. Leif and Ragnar share a confused look, and Ragnar bends closer to get a proper look at these hands.

“What are you?” he asks the boy, not expecting an answer.

The boy must understand what has caught their interest, because he tries to hide his hands under his chest. Ragnar struggles to retrieve one – the boy might be stronger than he looks – and takes a closer look to the clenched fist. There is blood leaking down the boy’s palm.

“By the gods, what is he?” Leif says. Even his father draws closer, hand on the pommel of his sword. Just in case.

Ragnar pries the boy’s hand open and straightens his fingers. The three of them lean down like one man to get a better look. A sob escapes the little man and he screws his eyes shut.

“I… I’ve never seen such thing,” Erik mutters.

Indeed. There are tiny black claws at the tip of each of the boy’s fingers, smaller than one centimetre. Tiny but sharp, much like a raven’s talon. Ragnar presses his forefinger under one claw and it draws blood right away.

“Do you think this is one of Loki’s tricks?” Leif asks.

“Perhaps…”

Now Ragnar can’t wait to discover what is hidden under the fabric. The boy can’t be a hunchback, it is something else. He releases his hand and takes his dagger.

“Keep him down,” he orders Leif.

The boy opens his eyes at the sudden movement around him. He gasps when the dagger starts tearing the fabric of his clothes and then renews his struggles, letting out broken little sounds. Ragnar rips the back of the robe in two and frowns when it reveals strips of white fabric wrapped around the boy. Black things – are they feathers? – protrude at shoulders level. Ragnar finds the end of the bandages and starts to unwind them, ignoring the litany of “no, no, no, no” falling from the boy’s lips. Half of the bandages are gone now, and Ragnar can’t believe what he is seeing.

“By Odin…” Erik whispers.

When Ragnar is done, the bandages fall around the boy’s feet and Leif releases him, moving away as if he had been burnt. As soon as he is free, the little man sags to his knees and curls on himself, forehead resting against the altar.

“What is this?” Leif exclaims, scared and curious at the same time.

This refers to a pair of black wings spouting out of the boy’s back. They seem as long as his arms, even though it is hard to judge for now, since the boy keeps them folded around him like a frail shield.  
Ragnar approaches, and the priest – or whatever he is – casts a glance at him under a wing, eyeing the dagger Ragnar still holds. The Viking tucks it back in its sheath and crouches next to the boy, extending his arm to brush his fingers against the feathers. The contact doesn’t last more than a second. The boy hisses and lashes out, his tiny claws digging into Ragnar’s wrist.

“Ow!”

He loses his balance and falls on his ass, but the boy doesn’t take advantage of it, only keeps glaring at Ragnar. Leif has drawn out his sword but Ragnar motions for him to stay back.

“Don’t touch them,” the priest threatens.

Ragnar looks at the scratches on his skin. They aren’t deep, but they sting. 

“Fine. I won’t touch them. Leif, find another robe for him. We have to hide the… wings again. I don’t want the others to see them for now.”

He retrieves the bandages, careful not to get too close to the priest.

“I’m going to wrap them back on you, nothing more. No need to try and slit my throat.”

Oh, if looks could kill… However, the boy doesn’t move except to allow better access to Ragnar. The Viking tries to wrap the bandages as tight as they were, and it can’t be comfortable for the boy.  
Leif comes back with a robe and Ragnar hands it to the young man. Blue eyes glare at him for a while, but Ragnar won’t turn away. He wants to see every part of him. The priest gives in and puts on the new robe – as new as a robe taken from a dead body can be – and his claws keep gripping on the fabric, tearing it a bit sometimes.

“Can’t you… retract them?” Ragnar asks.

“No.”

The priest clutches his book against his chest again and stands in front of the three Vikings. Ragnar eyes him up and down, still not sure if what they have witnessed is real.

“Leif, stay close to him. Hopefully, the others won’t see that we have a… hunchback with us.”

 

Thank the gods, the journey back is quiet. They sit the priest – Athelstan, as he tells Ragnar later – next to an older priest, and they share words in their strange language. The older priest rubs Athelstan’s shoulder, sometimes casting Ragnar a furious (and scared) look. After a while, Ragnar notices that the tiny claws have disappeared. He only catches sight of them again when the older priest dies and they discard his body in the sea. 

 

Once they set foot on their homeland, Ragnar doesn’t waste time and ties a rope around Athelstan’s neck. Better mark him as his right away, but no one pays attention to the little man anyway.

Therefore, when the Earl orders them to take one thing from the treasure, Ragnar doesn’t hesitate. He may put on a show before he decides, but deep down his choice is made. The priest might be the most surprised by his decision.

“Where are we going?” Athelstan asks when they leave the great hall.

“Home. You’re going to meet my family.”

“Please, don’t tell them about me, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Ragnar doesn’t conceal his snort. “They will see, one day or another.” He pauses and turns, and Athelstan almost bumps into him. He takes a step back, eyes cast downward. “Also, shall I remind you that you are my slave now? I can show anyone who you are if it pleases me.”

Athelstan looks up at him, his hands clutching around the book. Ragnar can see the tiny claws piercing the skin, even though Athelstan is fighting it.

“You can’t control it, can you?”

Athelstan shakes his head, jaw tense. However, the claws disappear back into his flesh after a few seconds.

“Is there something which can help you? For the control, I mean.”

“Nothing you can do!” Athelstan snaps.

Ragnar arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. It is even better if Athelstan has a temper.

“I will not tell them now,” Ragnar declares while they resume walking, and he can hear Athelstan’s sigh of relief.

 

Bjorn and Gyda are quite surprised by Athelstan’s appearance, and that’s only because of that shaved spot on his head. Ragnar can’t wait to see their faces when they see the wings.

Oh, and Lagertha. When she suggests that they invite the priest in their bed that night, his cock throbs with anticipation, even though he knows the priest is going to turn them down. And he does, but he will change his mind in time. Ragnar hopes so.

As soon as the sun starts shining, Ragnar wakes Athelstan up. The priest blinks, looking disoriented, and then he gasps when he recognizes Ragnar. The Viking checks to see if his claws are out, but there is nothing. Maybe Athelstan is a bit less scared of him.

“Come, Priest. We’re going to see a friend of mine.”

He leads Athelstan through the woods until they reach Floki’s house. He doesn’t expect Athelstan to remember Floki, but seeing how he narrows his eyes when Floki opens his door, he does.

“Ragnar! To what do I owe your visit?”

Ragnar nudges Athelstan forward. “There’s something you need to see. Are you alone?”

“Yes, Helga isn’t here for now. Come in.”

Once inside, Athelstan stays in the middle of the room, twisting his fingers, until Floki pushes him gently on a seat. 

“Tell me, Ragnar. What do I need to see?”

“Him,” Ragnar replies, and he points at Athelstan.

“Him? Well, he’s okay. I know he is your first slave, but he’s pretty normal. You don’t need to show him around,” Floki teases.

Ragnar chuckles and he gets up to stand behind Athelstan. He tugs on the hem of his robe.

“Take this off,” he orders.

“Please, no.”

“We’re not going to hurt you, Athelstan.”

Ragnar doesn’t press him more and after a quick glance to Floki, Athelstan starts undressing, until he’s left with a white loincloth and his restraints around his chest. He fumbles to unwind them, but Ragnar swats his hand away and does it himself. When the black wings deploy around Athelstan, Floki’s eyes widen and a large smile splits his face. Athelstan flushes and sits down, arms wrapped around himself. Ragnar can’t take his eyes off him – the sight is as amazing as the first time.

“By the gods, Ragnar… You have such a wonder between your hands and you keep a rope around his neck? Tssk.”

Floki shakes his head and goes to Athelstan, studying his wings from all sides. Of course, he approaches his fingers and…

“Floki don’t!”

Ragnar’s warning comes too late. Athelstan’s hand connects with Floki’s cheek the moment he touches him. Floki takes a step back, probing at the skin.

“Yes, he has those too,” Ragnar says, gesturing towards the claws.

“Wow.”

Floki comes back to sit next to Ragnar, more fascinated than shocked by the attack.

“I’m sorry,” Athelstan says with shiny eyes. “I didn’t mean to… I just don’t like it when people touch them. I won’t do it again.”

“I am the one apologizing here, Priest. I shouldn’t have touched without permission.”

Floki nods at him, and to Ragnar’s surprise, receives a tentative smile in return. Yes, going to Floki was a good idea.

“They are beautiful,” Floki whispers, mesmerized by the black feathers. “They are quite big, too.”

“They’re going to get bigger,” Athelstan mutters, and he says it like the thought pains him.

“How do you know?” Ragnar asks with genuine curiosity.

“They were smaller last month. I can feel it when I wrap them with the restraints. It gets harder as they grow.”

“Yes, about the restraints,” Floki says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I would say it’s unhealthy, if you ask for my advice. Can you fly?”

Ragnar smiles at Floki’s excited tone. His sounds like Bjorn when he is asking if he can train with the sword.

“Of course not.”

Athelstan looks at them like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, you have wings. I guess they are not only intended to make you look pretty,” Floki replies.

“I tell you I can’t fly!” Athelstan snaps.

Floki holds his hands up. “Fine. Let’s change the subject. What are you planning to do, Ragnar?”

“I don’t know. I agree with you, I think the restraining isn’t good. Yet I don’t want the Earl to know about him. The people wouldn’t hurt him, but the Earl… I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you can keep the wings out at the farm?” Floki suggests. “Restrain them when you go to Kattegat or somewhere else.”

“I can restrain them all the time. I’m used to it.”

“No!” Floki and Ragnar exclaim at once, and Ragnar regrets the harsh tone when Athelstan flinches. 

He leaves his seat and crouches in front of Athelstan, hoping that not towering above him will help.

“No,” he repeats with more softness. “You are only hurting yourself, and this is the one point I will never let you argue about.”

“Because I have the right to argue about something?”

“Yes. If you can keep your claws out of the argument.”

It is too early for a smile, but the corner of Athelstan’s mouth twitches.

***

Athelstan wouldn’t have minded staying at Floki’s house. The man is weird, but kind. In fact, the whole encounter was quite reassuring. The Vikings don’t seem to reject him because of the wings – and the damn claws. On the contrary, it is obvious he gained much more value when Ragnar discovered what he is.

Still, Athelstan wouldn’t have minded staying with Floki. They are back at the farm, and Ragnar is about to show him to his children. Athelstan hates being paraded around. His parents told him that’s what would happen if he didn’t go to the monastery, far from anyone’s view. Father Cuthbert warned him so many times about that eventuality, and also that if he left the monastery, he would only be considered as a monster. That people would not understand what he is and would want to kill him.  
This is confusing. He has merely spent a day in Ragnar’s strange land, but the people who know about the wings don’t look like they want to kill him. Even now, while he is undressing in front of Lagertha and the children – and under Ragnar’s praising gaze – he doesn’t hear screams of terror, just little excited squeals coming from Gyda. And maybe one from Bjorn, too.

“Can I touch them?” Gyda asks with a little voice.

Athelstan recoils and tucks his hands under his armpits. He can feel the claws fighting their way out, and the last thing he wants is hurting Gyda. Ragnar takes his daughter in his arms, smiling fondly.

“Athelstan doesn’t like to have his wings touched. Floki and I learned it the hard way.”

“Yes, but did you ask first, you rude farmer?” Lagertha asks.

Ragnar pouts, then sends an apologetic smile to Athelstan. “No. I admit I should have. Maybe our little girl has a lot to teach to grown-ups.” He tickles Gyda and she escapes his hold, giggling.

“I have a brush you could take for your wings,” Gyda suggests. “It is soft, I think it would suit.”

To be honest, Athelstan has never brushed his wings. Never even thought about it.

“Thank you,” he replies, and he would like to tell her that she could do it – because somehow he feels that she would love to – but he fears his own reactions.

“Can you fly?” Bjorn asks.

“No.” Athelstan does feel sad about that. He has always hoped he could, from the moment his wings appeared.

“You’re boring,” Bjorn decides, then leaves the room.

“He will get over the frustration,” Ragnar says, and Athelstan doesn’t know if he is addressing him or Lagertha. Maybe both. “Do you have bandages for his hands? He keeps hurting himself.”

Lagertha goes rummaging through boxes and Athelstan takes a look at his hands. He hadn’t realized it, but there is blood again coming from the little cuts in his palms. He used to do that a lot when he was child, as he had even less control than now on his claws. Also, the peace at the monastery had helped. He can’t remember the last time he had hurt himself like this before the Northmen arrived.  
Lagertha gives the bandages to Ragnar, and he holds them in front of Athelstan.

“It will be easier if I do it,” Ragnar says, “but you can decide.”

Athelstan hesitates. He would prefer to do it himself, but the claws are still out. Moreover, Ragnar hasn’t hurt him until now. Why would he start while bandaging his hands?

“Okay, you – you can do it.”

The smile on Ragnar’s face looks a lot like the one Gyda was – is still – sporting. Athelstan suspects he would clap his hands if he weren’t holding the bandages. The Viking cleans the wounds and takes care of him with gentle touches Athelstan didn’t expect. Most of all, he didn’t expect to relax because of them.

“Thank you,” he whispers when Ragnar is done. “Can I put my clothes back on?”

“About that,” Lagertha says, “we have to make you new ones. I could cut the back of one of Ragnar’s tunics and put buttons there. You would be able to keep the wings out.”

If he is being honest with himself, Athelstan has to admit that he loves the idea. Keeping the wings restrained is like keeping his arms tied to his chest all day. For now he puts the monk’s robe back on, not bothering to tie his wings again. Ragnar has already taken the bandages anyway.

Two days later, the tunic is ready. It is a blue one, and Athelstan suspects it is of a much better quality than the fabrics slaves usually wear. Lagertha helps him putting it on, careful not to brush his feathers when she fastens the buttons at the back.

“You’re beautiful, Athelstan” she compliments him.

Athelstan is still unused to praises, and he babbles his thanks for the tunic once he has recovered from the surprise. Lagertha squeezes his shoulder and goes outside to tend to their animals, leaving alone with Ragnar.

“It is true, you are beautiful. And you will be astonishing, once your hair grows back.”

Ragnar caught him trying to shave his hair yesterday and when he saw the blood trickling down his head, he forbid him to ever do it again. No need to say they had to change the bandages on his hand again after that. Athelstan hasn’t said a word to Ragnar since then.

“Do you want to go outside?” Ragnar asks out of the blue.

Athelstan feels the childish urge to say no just to contradict Ragnar, but he cannot help the excited shiver that goes through his wings. It is sunny outside, and he has never felt the warmth of the sun on his feathers.

“What if someone sees me?”

“No one is here, except from Lagertha and the children. Come on.”

Ragnar gives him one of his sassy smiles and goes out. Athelstan stops on the doorstep. It is the first time since his childhood that he goes outside like this. It is frightening but he also wants to savour the moment. He closes his eyes and takes a step forward, thus not realizing that Lagertha and the children stopped what they were doing to observe him.  
The feeling is wonderful and his feathers quiver on their own accord. Athelstan forgets everything for a while. He extends his arms and a second later, his wings. The feathers rustle in the light breeze in time with his black curls. It feels amazing. Athelstan flaps his wings once, and a powerful draft strokes his sides. He didn’t believe his wings were so strong. Perhaps they could carry him into the sky after all. At this precise instant, he is sure they could.

When Athelstan opens his eyes, the four Vikings are staring at him, with nothing else but fascination. Ragnar even gapes a little. Athelstan lets his arms fall by his side, but he doesn’t fold his wings. He can’t bring himself to it. Ragnar crosses the short distance separating them and stops at arm length from Athelstan.

“I can’t believe they kept you caged for so long,” he says. “I shall never put a rope around your neck again.”

This time, Athelstan can’t contain a small smile.

 

As the weeks pass, Athelstan finds himself more at ease with Ragnar’s family. Bjorn isn’t too fond of him, but Athelstan enjoys each moment he spends with Gyda. He is also more at ease with himself. The wings don’t scare him anymore, they finally became a part of him. Which is a good thing, because Athelstan was right: they keep growing, and faster than before. Maybe because of the sun, or the new freedom of movement. They are a bit thicker and the feathers have never been so shiny. The regular brushing might help.  
Ragnar joins him one evening after putting the children to bed. Athelstan is sitting in front of the fire, brushing the large feathers at the tip of his wings.

“Why do you hate it so much when we touch them?” Ragnar asks after watching him for a while.

“I… it feels very personal. And when I was at the monastery, Father Cuthbert told me that people would try to cut my wings if they knew. I grew up with this belief and… well, your man had a hand on his sword, that day you found me. You had your dagger too.”

“Yes but… we didn’t mean to cut them. Why would someone do that?”

“Because I am cursed. I am a bad sign. My parents told me so when the wings appeared. That’s why they brought me to the monastery.” The memory still hurts.

“So you didn’t always have them?”

“They appeared when I was eight or nine, I think. It hurt.” It had been horrible, feeling the skin torn apart. “If only they were white, everything would have been easier.”

Ragnar frowns. “Why is that?”

“White is pure, like a dove. Maybe I wouldn’t have been seen as a bad omen with white wings.”

“I don’t think colour is the problem here. The people around you were the problem. Anyway, I like the black, it suits you. You remind me of Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn.”

“I don’t expect any less from Odin’s descendant,” Athelstan teases.

He had heard Floki and Ragnar talk about this, one day Floki had come to visit them.

“Of course, my little raven.”

Athelstan blushes and resumes brushing his feathers. Ragnar stares at the fire, a dreamy smile on his lips. They have shared many evenings like this one, and Athelstan finds himself more comfortable every time. Athelstan looks down at the brush in his hand and gathers enough courage to ask for what he has been thinking about for some time now.

“Would you… would you help me with it? I can’t reach between my shoulders…”

Ragnar looks at him with a blank face. He shouldn’t have asked. He is just a slave after all, what kind of slave asks his master to help him grooming? Yet Ragnar gives him a lopsided grin and takes the brush from his shaking fingers.

“I was wondering when you would ask, my little raven.”

Ragnar shuffles to sit closer to his side and Athelstan folds his wings tighter around himself – they are taking more and more space.

“May I use my fingers too?”

Athelstan nods, and prepares himself for their first real contact. He knows it is going to feel special, he just doesn’t know how. When they met at Lindisfarne, the contact was too brief and he was too frightened to feel anything. Ragnar starts with light strokes of the brush, then he smoothes the feathers with his palm. Athelstan gasps. It brings warmth, like the sun does, but maybe even more. This warmth reaches inside of him, makes his blood boil and his heart beat stronger. This touch brings more than a physical feeling. It brings novelty, joy and trust. He never thought he would ever feel trust towards the man who enslaved him. At least not so soon. Ragnar grazes the line where one wing spouts out of the skin, and Athelstan hisses between his teeth. His claws pierce their way out and that’s new. They only appear when he is scared or angry. But this new heat building inside of him, it is far from being anger.  
Ragnar’s eyes are trained on his face, tracking each emotion as he moves his fingers. He squeezes the bone of the wing and a new shudder goes through Athelstan. Before he can think better of it, he turns slightly and grabs Ragnar’s forearm. His claws dig into Ragnar’s flesh, and even though the Viking tenses, he doesn’t stop stroking the feathers. Athelstan swallows and comes back to his senses, panting. He looks down at Ragnar’s arm and quickly lets go of him. Beads of blood appear on the skin, mingling with the blond hairs.

“I didn’t mean to –”

Ragnar dismisses his apologies with a shrug and resumes brushing him.

“I don’t mind your claws, Athelstan. In fact, depending on the context, I would love them.”

He winks and Athelstan would blush if his cheeks were not already burning red.

“Maybe we could make a habit out of this brushing thing,” Ragnar suggests.

 

They do. They share this little ritual almost every evening, while Lagertha watches them fondly. However, Ragnar uses his fingers when it is only the two of them. Athelstan isn’t comfortable with another person watching, even Lagertha.

They have found a balance and live in peace, but concealing the wings is a serious problem now. Athelstan doesn’t need to try to know that they would be obvious under his monk robe. Moreover, he doesn’t want to wear the robe anymore, even if they go to Kattegat. He has to fit in the Viking society, and wearing the robe isn’t going to help. Besides that, the robe belongs to his past, a past he isn’t sure he wants to be reminded of. He was just hiding who he truly is.

The concealing problem doesn’t last for long. One day, as Athelstan is working in front of the farm with Gyda by his side, they suddenly hear the sound of hooves hitting the ground. Athelstan urges Gyda inside – Ragnar is hunting in the forest with Bjorn, and they’re not supposed to have anyone coming to the farm – but the horsemen are there before they can go anywhere.

“We’re here to see…”

The horseman who spoke – a man with an impressive beard – stops mid-sentence when he catches sight of Athelstan’s wings.

“…Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Athelstan pushes Gyda behind him at the same time Lagertha gets out of the house. She already has a shield in hand.

“Knut. Ragnar isn’t here.”

Knut. Athelstan heard Ragnar talking about him and the Earl with Lagertha. From the tone of the conversation, Athelstan had gathered that Ragnar was at odds with the Earl.

“What is that?” Knut asks, nodding at Athelstan.

Lagertha doesn’t lose her composure, however she raises her shield a bit.

“Our slave.”

“And you took it from your Earl? Such a surprising thing?”

Athelstan wants to retort that he is not an “it”, but it would make things worse.

“Ragnar wasn’t aware of what he is at that time.”

“But surely he was after.” 

Knut motions for the horsemen – four of them – to move forward, and soon Lagertha, Athelstan and Gyda are encircled. Suddenly Athelstan’s wings seem very heavy, useless, and to make him an easy target.

“I’m going to take your slave to my brother,” Knut decides. “Perhaps this will make him more merciful towards your pig of a husband.”

“You can try,” Lagertha snarls and now she’s ready to use her shield as a deadly weapon.

For once, Athelstan is glad to feel the little stinging pain caused by the claws piercing his skin. It is not much against a sword, yet it is better than nothing.  
One man pushes his horse forward, but Lagertha hits his knee hard with her shield before he can try anything. Another one comes from Athelstan side and since he can’t reach high, Athelstan digs his claws all the way in the man’s thigh, then pulls down. He hates violence, but the shout which comes in return is quite satisfying. Now that they know Athelstan isn’t as helpless as thought, their attackers are more guarded. Maybe they can fight them off until Ragnar comes back.

They don’t. After a few minutes of this little game, Knut sighs and joins his men. Lagertha is fighting one of them – shield against axe – and Athelstan is trying to avoid the blows of the others, keeping Gyda out of the way as much as possible. It is not enough.

A piercing scream rings in the air and they all stop moving. Athelstan turns back, horrified. Knut is holding Gyda by her hair, pressing a dagger on her throat. Her little feet are barely touching the ground.

“Put her down!” Lagertha shouts.

“I will. If your slave stops being difficult and comes with us. Then you’ll have your daughter.”

“I’ll come with you,” Athelstan exclaims before Lagertha can protest. “Please, don’t hurt her.”

“Ah, I knew you would remember your place,” Knut sneers.

“Don’t go, Athelstan,” Gyda pleads.

Knut’s men are already around him, swords pressed to his throat.

“Don’t worry Gyda, I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes,” Knut agrees, “very soon. Tell your husband we’re waiting for him.”

 

They take him to Kattegat, and all the people they pass stare openly at Athelstan. Some – most – even follow them while maintaining a safe distance. Thus, when they arrive in front of the great hall a crowd has formed around them. The Earl is outside within a minute. He is left speechless on his doorstep for a while.

“My dear brother,” he says at last, “I send you fetching Ragnar Lothbrok and you bring back a…”

He gestures towards Athelstan, arching his eyebrows.

“His slave,” Knut answers. “I believed you would like to see him.”

“You did well.” Haraldson approaches them, eyeing Athelstan up and down. “What kind of man wouldn’t be interested by such a rarity?”

The horsemen move aside when the Earl reaches Athelstan. That doesn’t make him feel less trapped. He keeps his wings folded behind him, trying to protect them as much as he can, but they are so big that they protrude above each shoulder.

“You are going to stay with me,” the Earl says.

“I belong to Ragnar!” Athelstan snarls, and he never thought he would say so one day.

“No. You don’t belong to an unruly farmer. Your place is with a man of power.”

“Don’t touch me,” Athelstan warns as Haraldson stretches his hand.

“Tell me, what would you?”

Athelstan swings his arm, but the Earl catches his wrist before the claws reach his face. He tightens his grip painfully and Athelstan winces. Another Viking appears next to him and grabs his other hand to make sure he won’t attempt anything. The Earl smirks when he discovers the claws.

“Oh, the things you could do in battle once properly trained.”

“I will never obey you!”

Athelstan doesn’t wait for an answer and unfolds his wings in one go. He hits the Viking holding him with full force and sends the man flying to the ground. The crowd gasps but it doesn’t register in his mind. With his free hand, he reaches for the Earl’s throat and digs the claws in. The skin is tender and thin there, he has no trouble drawing blood. The Earl screams, trying to fight him off.

“Take him off! Take him off!”

Two men grab Athelstan and he is forced to release Haraldson, panting. He didn’t cause any lethal damage, but enough to bring a stinging pain. Someone gives a rag to Haraldson and he presses it against the wounds.

“Looks like we’ll have to teach you obedience first,” he tells Athelstan, gesturing towards a point behind Athelstan. The two men drag him to a post Athelstan hadn’t noticed. When they push him face first against it, he sees the shackles fixed on top of the post. They tie him there, with his arms raised above his head, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach.

The Earl grips Athelstan’s shirt and rips it, and Athelstan can see the wooden buttons falling at his feet. His mind flies to Ragnar and his family.  
The shirt is pushed over his shoulders, exposing his back. He knows what is going to happen, the cracking sound he hears behind him is only confirming his fear.

“You are the result of Ragnar’s disobedience,” Haraldson says loud enough for the crowd to hear, “and this is a problem. But I believe every problem has its solution.”

Athelstan screws his eyes shut and whispers a prayer, even though he doesn’t know what he is praying for. For this to stop? For Ragnar and his family to stay safe? Probably both.  
The whip lands on his lower back without warning and his body jolts against the post. He bites back a whimper. He can take it. He has to. Another blow criss-crosses the first, harder. His skin burns and Athelstan tries to focus on his prayer, claws digging into the wood. The next hit is aimed at his wings, and this time it tears a scream out of him. The pain is ten times worse. The whipping intensifies, as well as his screams. Athelstan twists against the post, trying to avoid the next blow, pulling on his shackles. He feels blood on his skin, between his feathers. He prays his God for mercy, and deep in his heart for Ragnar to come and free him.

***

When Ragnar comes home to find Gyda in tears and Lagertha angrily polishing the blade of his sword, he knows something is wrong. A hot rage fills him when she tells him what happened.

“You three stay here,” he tells them. 

He grabs his sword and rushes to Kattegat. Each second lost is another one leaving Athelstan at the hands of the Earl. When he gets closer to the great hall, he notices the crowd first. Some villagers clasp their hands on their mouths, others sport a pained or disapproving expression. There is a child crying. Ragnar hears a broken howl and elbows his way through the crowd until he can see what is the cause of this. His heart sinks. Athelstan – his Athelstan – is there, attempting to escape the Earl’s whip. His wings are flapping desperately, and Ragnar frowns when something warm and wet lands on his cheekbone. He wipes it with his thumb and realizes it is a drop of blood. The bastard whipped his wings.

Rage doesn’t even start to describe what fills Ragnar’s heart. A cold fury seizes him, an irrepressible desire to kill.

“Stop this!” he shouts.

The Earl stills his arm in the air and lowers the whip as he turns to Ragnar.

“Ragnar Lothbrok. Here you are, at last.”

Athelstan sags against the post, his wings falling to his sides. Ragnar wants to free him right now, take him home and tend to his wounds, but he has something important to do. Something that could free them all.

“I’m challenging you, Earl Haraldson, for you don’t deserve to be Earl.”

The Earl throws his whip to the ground and motions for one of the slaves to bring his sword.

“You have no idea how long I waited for this, Ragnar.”

Ragnar could say the same. There is much at stake, but he doesn’t hesitate. He steps into the circle formed by the crowd, sword raised. He takes a quick look around and spots familiar faces: Torstein, Leif and his father. They have their hands ready on their weapons.  
As Haraldson mirrors his position, Ragnar notices distinctive marks on his neck, and his heart swells with pride at the thought that Athelstan didn’t go down without a fight.  
He attacks first, without putting too much strength in the blow. The Earl counters easily. After a few blows, they switch the swords for axes. Ragnar didn’t bring one, but Torstein steps in, handing him his with a confident smile. That’s when the real fight begins, and Ragnar soon gains the upper hand, despite some clever hits delivered from Haraldson. Ragnar sends him to the ground with one powerful blow between his shoulder blades, and they both know the fight is over. Ragnar kneels next to him.

“This is for Athelstan,” he whispers as he takes the Earl’s wrist and cuts the veins.

Siggy – and Ragnar hadn’t even noticed her presence – rushes to her husband’s side, but it is far too late. Haraldson dies after whispering his last words to his wife, and Ragnar is proclaimed new Earl. However, the shouts of “Hail, Earl Ragnar” are just a distant sound, as there is one thing alone in his mind. He turns away from the former Earl’s body and rushes to the post where Athelstan is still hanging, eyes half-closed. Black feathers are scattered on the ground around him and the post is marred with scratches left by his claws.

“Athelstan,” Ragnar whispers, and for a moment he doesn’t get any reaction. “Athelstan, it’s over.”

Ragnar unshackles him and thankfully, Torstein is there to catch Athelstan, since the shackles were the only thing keeping him on his feet. He and Ragnar position themselves on each side of Athelstan, supporting him the best they can. Ragnar heads for the way leading to his home, but Torstein stops him with a frown.

“Where are you going? You are the Earl now. The great hall is yours.”

The great hall. Yes. It had slipped out of his mind. They bring Athelstan to Haraldson’s room, the first one they find, and lay him on his front upon the large bed.

“Don’t leave his side,” Torstein says, “I will warn Lagertha.”

“Can you ask Leif to call Floki? We’re going to need his skills.”

Torstein nods, and casts a sad look to Athelstan’s back before he leaves. Ragnar pushes Athelstan curls out of his face, whispering soothing words to him. He isn’t even sure he can hear him. Ragnar doesn’t dare touching any part of Athelstan’s back and wings. The lacerations on his back aren’t too deep and should heal quickly, but the Viking is more concerned about the wings. Ragnar spots several parts with missing or ripped feathers, and the lacerations are deeper than the ones on his back.

It takes an eternity for Floki to get there. He pales when he sees Athelstan, but he doesn’t waste time and sets himself to work.

“Hmm, this one is nasty,” he says to himself while cleaning the wounds. “But there is nothing I can’t fix.”

Ragnar sighs with relief and sits at the edge of the bed.

“What about his wings? Will he be able to fly?”

“Considering that he didn’t before, I don’t know. Regarding the feathers, they will grow back. Also, I have a special ointment to treat the cuts. He will be fine, given enough time.”

Floki needs Ragnar’s help to manoeuvre the wings. Ragnar feels like carrying a new-born baby, not knowing what he can grip or if he is squeezing too hard. Once spread out, the wings are larger than the bed. Floki whistles appreciatively, hands on his hips.

“Impressive. Don’t tell me he can’t fly with these. Anyway, my job here is done, at least for now.”

“Thank you. Stay here tonight. I’m sure we can find a bed for you,” Ragnar replies, squeezing his shoulder.

“Ragnar.”

Lagertha is here with Gyda and Bjorn. A broad smile splits Ragnar’s face and he goes to her, taking her worried face between his hands. They stare at each other, silent for a few seconds and he leans down to catch her lips in a fierce kiss. Bjorn lets out a disgusted grunt and moves towards Athelstan’s bed, followed by Gyda.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks Floki, trying to sound casual, but the little crease on his forehead betrays him.

“Bjorn, are you doubting my skills?” Floki teases.

“Can we help him?” Gyda asks. Her eyes are watery, and a tear rolls down her cheek.

Floki wipes the tear away while Lagertha takes the little girl in her arms.

“Of course you can. I will leave some ointment here for Athelstan, and he will need delicate hands to apply it. You’d be perfect for the task.”

The prospect seems to comfort Gyda and even Bjorn looks less worried.

“One of us should stay with him until he wakes up,” Lagertha suggests, already looking at Ragnar. They all know he is going to volunteer.

Ragnar sits on a stool and waits, stroking some feathers with the tip of his fingers. Athelstan’s eyes flutter open maybe an hour later. He tries to move and winces.

“Lay still,” Ragnar tells him. “You can’t get up now.”

“But… where are we? I don’t… I don’t recognize the place. Where is the Earl?”

Athelstan’s eyes go round with fear at the last bit. Ragnar strokes his fingers through his curls, hoping it will soothe him.

“In front of you,” he replies.

“Wh-what? Oh. Did you… did you fight him?”

“I killed him. He will never hurt you again, I made sure of it.”

Athelstan smiles against the mattress. “Thank you. But… the people… they all saw me. They all know.”

“Don’t worry. After what they witnessed today, I don’t think they will want to hurt you more.”

Athelstan nods. Hopefully Ragnar is right.

“Do you want to rest now? Or can I let the children in for a minute? They are dying to see you.”

Athelstan fidgets on the mattress to cross his arms under his head.

“You mean Gyda is dying to see me.”

“No, Bjorn too.” Ragnar pushes himself half on the bed to whisper in his ear “He was angry I forbid him to come with me to rescue you. But don’t tell him I said that.”

They both chuckle, and Ragnar feels Athelstan’s breath on his skin, which makes him realize how close they are. Not that he minds. He starts to draw back but Athelstan catches the front of his tunic, bringing him back where he was. He glances from Ragnar’s eyes to his mouth, and drags him closer again.

“Does your god agree with that?”

“Yes,” Athelstan replies, staring at Ragnar’s lips. “I think he does.”

Athelstan keeps Ragnar where he wants him and cranes his neck to press his lips against the Viking’s, hesitant. He draws back, looking for something in Ragnar’s eyes. Whatever he finds there it must suit him, because he kisses him again, with more force. Ragnar opens his lips, letting him in, and Athelstan’s feathers start quivering when their tongues connect. When they part for air, Ragnar gives him a lopsided grin.

“At least I know when you’re pleased.”

“Hmm.”

Athelstan releases him and rests his head on his arms again. Apart from his bright red lips and his contented smile, it looks like nothing happened.

***

Athelstan recovers quicker than he expected. Whatever Floki puts in his ointment, it is doing wonders. Since Floki can’t always be there to take care of him and Ragnar has much to do now that he is Earl, Gyda is the one applying the ointment. At first she was scared of doing it wrong, but she quickly grew more confident. Her touch is always delicate and Athelstan cherishes the moments they spend together.

“Your feathers are growing back,” she says one day. “They will be as beautiful as before.”

She gets up to put the jar of ointment away and comes back hopping.

“Look, I made something for you! Mother helped me.”

Athelstan turns, curious, and discovers that she is holding a little package. It is the first time in his life he is offered a present.

“What is it?”

Gyda pushes it into his hands.

“It’s a gift! Open it.”

Her smile is contagious and he laughs at his own excitement while he unfolds the fabric protecting the gift. Inside, he discovers two long cords, each festooned with a multitude of coloured glass beads.

“It is amazing Gyda. But… what is it?”

“It’s for your wings. You already have your necklace with the little cross, and we figured you wouldn’t want another one. So I made this to put on your wings.”

Now that he takes a closer look at it, Athelstan notices three fasteners on each cord. One at each end, and another one approximately in the middle.

“Can you help him put it on?”

Gyda beams and bounces on her feet, fitting each cord in turns on the solid part of his wings, taking care not to graze them on the wounds, even though they are closed now. Once she is done, Athelstan runs his fingers on the beads, admiring the coloured sparkles they cast on the feathers when the light goes through them. It creates an amazing mix of blue, green and red, from one tip of his wings to the other.

“Bjorn said that I should put more red, that it would look better with the black.”

“Well, Bjorn has a great taste. Thank you, Gyda.”

He extends his arms and she hugs him, still bouncing a little.

“So you like it?”

“I love it. It means a lot to me.”

Later he thanks Lagertha too, because he knows Gyda didn’t find the beads on her own. She gives him a knowing smile, adding that Ragnar will love it. Then he finds Bjorn and thanks him for the choice of the colours, even though Bjorn insists that he has nothing to do with it.  
Athelstan doesn’t get to see Ragnar before the evening. He is in his room, struggling to unbutton his tunic – Lagertha sew the buttons back – when Ragnar appears on his doorstep.

“Are you in need of a helping hand?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Ragnar takes his time unbuttoning it, then he helps Athelstan taking it off and starts stroking his back. The wounds look very good – Ragnar suspects Athelstan has a quicker healing process than other human beings – and they will leave faint scars.

Ragnar buries his fingers in the feathers and oh, how Athelstan missed it. He turns and moves back until he reaches the middle of the bed. Ragnar takes the hint and follows him, crawling on all fours with a predatory grin. They kneel in front of each other and none of them moves for a while.

“The beads look good on you,” Ragnar says.

“Gyda did an amazing work.”

Athelstan spreads his wings and slowly brings them forward to wrap them around Ragnar. The Vikings wraps his arms around Athelstan’s lower back and brings him against his chest. Athelstan rests his head on a broad shoulder, revelling in the warmth the wings and their breaths create. Ragnar doesn’t stop his strokes, using one hand to massage the base of a wing, and the other to fondle his ass. Athelstan shakes against Ragnar’s chest.

“Please,” he whimpers.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop. Give me more.”

He raises his head to brush his nose against Ragnar’s, their parted lips not quite touching, but chasing each other. Athelstan tightens his wings without warning, and Ragnar crashes against him. Athelstan seizes the opportunity and catches his lips between his teeth. Ragnar hisses but he doesn’t draw back.

“Are you going to use your claws with me?” he pants.

“If you wish it… But you will have to do more than kissing me for that.”

Once they get tired of the kissing and the fondling, they quit their clothes and Athelstan turns on his hands and knees. They don’t really know how to do this. Ragnar doesn’t want to put too much pressure on the wings, so Athelstan can’t lie on his back. Well, that might also be an excuse for Ragnar to have a better access to the wings, apparently Athelstan’s most sensitive area.  
Their lovemaking is sweet, and Ragnar manages to soothe Athelstan all along with gentle kisses and clever strokes. Where Athelstan expected to feel pain and shame, he is filled with pleasure and quiescence. And a cock, too. He reaches his climax when Ragnar gives him a powerful thrust and buries his face in the feathers at the same time, biting in. Ragnar follows not long after.  
They stay together all night long, Athelstan using Ragnar as a pillow and his wings as blankets. A second before Athelstan falls asleep, he feels the soft press of Ragnar’s lips on the crown of his head, and hears a whispered “I love you”.

 

***

One day, when Athelstan is fully healed, Ragnar takes him outside of Kattegat, and they walk until they reach a cliff.

“What are we doing here?” Athlestan asks.

“We’re teaching you how to fly.”

Athelstan takes a step back.

“No, I can’t –”

“You can. Your wings are strong, just like you. They will carry you anywhere.”

Perhaps Ragnar is right. After all, Athelstan wants to fly. The fact that it has been denied to him all his life doesn’t mean it is impossible.

“But if I fly… If I can go anywhere like you say, maybe I will leave. Maybe I will go to England and never come back.”

“Yes. You could. That’s up to you.”

Athelstan doesn’t know what to answer. He never thought Ragnar would give him such an opportunity. Not so soon.  
Athelstan steps away from the cliff. If he is doing this, he isn’t jumping. He unfolds his wings and the beads shine under the sun. He almost never takes them off. Ragnar takes a few steps back and Athelstan starts to flap his wings with increasing speed and power. He closes his eyes and at one point, he realises that his feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He looks down and yes, he is flying. He slows his movement and lands softly. Okay. Let’s try that cliff.

Athelstan runs and jumps, afraid for a split second that it won’t work. But then he extends his arms and spreads his wings, and he isn’t falling anymore. He is gliding. He flaps his wings and then he is going up, high in the sky. The sea spreads in front of him, like no other human being has ever seen it. He takes a large turn, heading back to the land. He is so high that the trees look like scattered little dots.  
Athelstan chooses a fast descent, head first. The air wiping his face brings tears out of his eyes, but he has scarcely felt so good. Only once, in fact.  
He lands behind Ragnar, who is almost thrown to the ground by the blast of air. He smiles at Athelstan like he sees him for the first time.

“I couldn’t see you anymore. I thought you were gone.”

Athelstan entwines his fingers with Ragnar’s.

“I can’t leave. I belong here. Between your arms.”

“And I am yours, as much as you are mine.”

Ragnar wraps his arm around Athelstan’s shoulders, pressing him to his side, and they head home.

“Wouldn’t you carry me to the hall, my little raven?” Ragnar asks, voice low and seductive.

“What? It’s only a ten-minute walk, lazy.”


End file.
